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On the way up, a man in his mid-30s passes us on the right. He's full-leather motorcycling it, his HD Sportster crammed between his thighs. He gives us a look to the left, a look that is leering and ogling, a look that says, "Helllllloooooo Ladies". My mom, punchy since we're nearly HALF WAY THERE, looks back at the man and says, "Oh, baby. Wait, too young... Do you have a father?" Laughter ensues as the heathen takes the exit and rides off into the distance.
Later, we talk about the movers. At this point, on Friday early afternoon, the movers are still god-like for us. They moved Amy's shit! At least, to their truck. But, none of the movers were native-speaking Americans. I imagined the ethnicity of each: one was Croatian (he had the Luka look), one was of Iranian descent, and the leader of the pack was Armenian. The Armenian had the thickest accent, and as pack-leader, did the most talking. He spoke in odd sentences, leaving out articles, nouns, and verbs at whim. Pointing to the TV, he asked, "You take in car? We load, no?" Pointing to the stack of boxes in one corner, "Need tape? Have tape! We tape!" It was Maisy meets Dr. Suess: simple, yet everything sounded so complicated. After our near-rendezvous with the motorcycle man, "Do you have a father?" became our answer to any and everything. In a stroke of genius, I proposed that once we got to Amy's place, we drink drink drink, and as the moving men move her in, we, in our drunken state, would say to the Armenian, "Do you have tape? Do you have father?" It was so ridiculously stupid, and yet it had us laughing the entire weekend. And, for the record, our fantasies were not to be realized: the Armenian got off the moving caravan somewhere in Bayonne, NJ, leaving us girls with the slim, silent Croatian and a strange Buckwheat-lookalike man.
What would a road trip be without a sprinkling or so of road construction? We saw one of these things on the side of the road and my mother made the universal sign for penis-in-vagina and said, "That thing's going to have sex with the ground!"
Another construction zone, this one guarded by a patrol car. As the patrol car was backing up along the left shoulder, my mom yelled out to him, "You need a back-up booper beeper!" No sooner had she said that (windows up, thankfully) then the next construction vehicle started backing up, complete with it's "Beee-oop, beee-oop, beee-oop"-ing. When I looked at her in disbelief, she said, "YOU KNOW, the beep-up backer booper--I mean the boop-beep backer-upper--I MEAN... NEVERMIND!" Laughing, again. HA HA HA HA HA.
ETA: Some people have to pay extra for blinkers. This was something mom said SEVERAL times on the trip. Most of the time, it went like this, "Oh, blinkers were extra, weren't they, DICK BREATH." Dick breath. My mom. Breath of dick.
Also, my mom has a theory about driving and it goes like this: stay the course. Don't change lanes, unless absolutely necessary. And every time she'd jockey for position, she'd yell at herself, "STAY THE COURSE, ROBIN. STAY THE COURSE. If you'd just stay the course!" And the same would be yelled at people that tried to weve in and out of traffic, thinking a car length or two would get them to their destination faster. As we'd inch closer and then pass the fidgety car, she'd just say in that mom-voice, "People, just stay the course. It's my theory and it works!" A few times, when impatient drivers tried to finagle their way into the other lanes in an effort to pass everyone that was stuck in traffic because OBVIOUSLY we all had a mental problem if we were just going to sit there when there was CLEARLY squeezing room, she said, "Blinkers an add-on option you couldn't afford on the Lexus, sweetie? STAY THE FUCKING COURSE, DICK BREATH!"
My mom and I together are never in dry pants for long.
Later, we talk about the movers. At this point, on Friday early afternoon, the movers are still god-like for us. They moved Amy's shit! At least, to their truck. But, none of the movers were native-speaking Americans. I imagined the ethnicity of each: one was Croatian (he had the Luka look), one was of Iranian descent, and the leader of the pack was Armenian. The Armenian had the thickest accent, and as pack-leader, did the most talking. He spoke in odd sentences, leaving out articles, nouns, and verbs at whim. Pointing to the TV, he asked, "You take in car? We load, no?" Pointing to the stack of boxes in one corner, "Need tape? Have tape! We tape!" It was Maisy meets Dr. Suess: simple, yet everything sounded so complicated. After our near-rendezvous with the motorcycle man, "Do you have a father?" became our answer to any and everything. In a stroke of genius, I proposed that once we got to Amy's place, we drink drink drink, and as the moving men move her in, we, in our drunken state, would say to the Armenian, "Do you have tape? Do you have father?" It was so ridiculously stupid, and yet it had us laughing the entire weekend. And, for the record, our fantasies were not to be realized: the Armenian got off the moving caravan somewhere in Bayonne, NJ, leaving us girls with the slim, silent Croatian and a strange Buckwheat-lookalike man.
What would a road trip be without a sprinkling or so of road construction? We saw one of these things on the side of the road and my mother made the universal sign for penis-in-vagina and said, "That thing's going to have sex with the ground!"
Another construction zone, this one guarded by a patrol car. As the patrol car was backing up along the left shoulder, my mom yelled out to him, "You need a back-up booper beeper!" No sooner had she said that (windows up, thankfully) then the next construction vehicle started backing up, complete with it's "Beee-oop, beee-oop, beee-oop"-ing. When I looked at her in disbelief, she said, "YOU KNOW, the beep-up backer booper--I mean the boop-beep backer-upper--I MEAN... NEVERMIND!" Laughing, again. HA HA HA HA HA.
ETA: Some people have to pay extra for blinkers. This was something mom said SEVERAL times on the trip. Most of the time, it went like this, "Oh, blinkers were extra, weren't they, DICK BREATH." Dick breath. My mom. Breath of dick.
Also, my mom has a theory about driving and it goes like this: stay the course. Don't change lanes, unless absolutely necessary. And every time she'd jockey for position, she'd yell at herself, "STAY THE COURSE, ROBIN. STAY THE COURSE. If you'd just stay the course!" And the same would be yelled at people that tried to weve in and out of traffic, thinking a car length or two would get them to their destination faster. As we'd inch closer and then pass the fidgety car, she'd just say in that mom-voice, "People, just stay the course. It's my theory and it works!" A few times, when impatient drivers tried to finagle their way into the other lanes in an effort to pass everyone that was stuck in traffic because OBVIOUSLY we all had a mental problem if we were just going to sit there when there was CLEARLY squeezing room, she said, "Blinkers an add-on option you couldn't afford on the Lexus, sweetie? STAY THE FUCKING COURSE, DICK BREATH!"
My mom and I together are never in dry pants for long.
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Date: 2006-08-31 02:03 pm (UTC)From:Hahah brilliant retort!
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Date: 2006-08-31 02:11 pm (UTC)From:OH, and I forgot: she called everyone DICK BREATH.
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Date: 2006-08-31 03:44 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-08-31 03:48 pm (UTC)From:As I was biking in this morning, someone in a little red car cut me off and all I could think was DICK BREATH. Then I laughed so hard I almost didn't make it up the hill. HA!